


the setting suns are open

by darthjamtart



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 1, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthjamtart/pseuds/darthjamtart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breakfast dates, of a sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the setting suns are open

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brilligspoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilligspoons/gifts).



> Title taken from DH Lawrence's poem _Pomegranate_ , which can be read [here](http://www.tastearts.com/fruit-poem-pomegranate-by-d-h-lawrence/).

The flowers arrive on Monday morning without a note, but accompanied by a large cup of steaming hot coffee and a croissant. The coffee, when Joan smells it, almost makes her eyes roll back in her head, it’s so good. The croissant is filled with some sort of berry preserve and it practically melts in her mouth.

“Sign here, please,” the delivery man says, pointing at an electronic line. He’d addressed her by name, so there’s no possibility that these were sent to her in error.

“You haven’t been on any dates recently, Watson,” Holmes tells her when he emerges from the stairwell. “And you’re not the type of woman to send flowers to herself, feigning the existence of a secret admirer.” He waits, expectantly, for an additional clue, for her to give something away, but Joan is baffled, and keeps her face as steady as possible to conceal said bafflement.

They’re _her_ flowers. She should get to figure out who sent them, not Sherlock.

Tuesday brings a box of cupcakes, an exquisitely light and fluffy golden cake with a hint of vanilla and earl grey, frosted with an airily sweet blackberry-lavender buttercream. Holmes eats one for breakfast with her, then announces that he thought he detected a clue in the ingredients used, but can’t be sure unless he eats another. Joan, rolling her eyes, pushes the box across the table.

“It’s obvious _someone_ is trying to impress you,” Holmes says, frowning, when the doorbell rings on Wednesday. “It’s not my brother; I already checked,” he adds. The delivery this time is a single breakfast sandwich: a fresh-baked, slightly yeasty roll, melted cheese still molten-hot and oozing over an herbed egg scramble. Holmes watches her eat it with undisguised longing, which is a little disturbing. Joan takes coffee from their home pot in a to-go cup and tries not to be disappointed that it’s not as good as what she had on Monday.

Thursday is coffee again, even better than she remembers from the beginning of what’s been a surprisingly pleasant week. It comes with a small custard tart, the top delicately caramelized in shades that sketch out a remarkably good portrait of Joan’s face. 

Well, nothing’s been poisoned so far. “The audacity of that woman!” Holmes proclaims, recognizing the style of the artwork immediately. “And she didn’t even make enough for you to share!”

Moriarty is waiting at their dining room table on Friday morning with a pot of tea and an elegant fruit display that makes Edible Arrangements look like it’s been designed by a particularly underdeveloped kindergartner. 

“She’s doing this to _get to me_ ,” Sherlock hisses. 

“And clearly it’s working,” Joan murmurs as she brushes past him to take a seat at the table.

“Not everything is about you, Sherlock,” Moriarty adds, pouring Joan a cup of tea. It smells heavenly. Joan takes a sip, and doesn’t try to stop herself from smiling.


End file.
